The Way She Burns

You wish you were a proper anything.

Mr. Spears watches me hide within the folds of the coat and tilts his head, leaning a sinewy forearm against the frame of the door, those cobalt eyes meandering down to my bloodless fingers where they desperately try and keep my disgraceful nature at bay.

“What is your name?” he asks, his gaze teasing the swell of my breasts.

Another rush of embarrassing lust makes my legs tremble. “Chloe, sir.”

“Chloe,” he echoes in a far deeper tone, running his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. “You’re a pretty little thing. Nice full hips for gripping, from what I can tell with that coat on. And I haven’t had female companionship in quite a while. So here’s a proposition for you.” He crosses his arms across his imposing chest, casting a glance down at Curtis. “I’ll allow your brother inside. I’ll feed and clothe him, give him a place to sleep. But you’ll stay here, as well.”

“Me?” I whisper, head spinning. “Why?”

“Like I said,” he responds, very succinctly. “I’m not a babysitter. You’ll look after him. And when you’re not occupied with the needs of the child, you’ll come satisfy mine.”

2

Sebastian

There is no way in hell she’s going to agree to be my live-in mistress.

Not even for a single night.

Mainly, I made the proposition because it amuses me to watch her cower inside that coat. A very expensive coat. And that tells me everything I need to know. Chloe is probably a former rich girl who got herself pregnant and was cast out on the streets by her disapproving family. I’m surprised she’s managed to hang onto the nice coat, considering the lawlessness of Harding these days. It should have been stolen by now.

Her innocence certainly was.

But not her scruples, apparently.

Look at how she clutches at the sides of her jacket, giving me that prim and proper expression? The rich girl still hasn’t learned her place, despite her obvious hardships. She might be fucking beautiful, but she’s buttoned up. A prude. How any man convinced her to lie with him is beyond me. But…I find I’d like to track the fucker down and choke him for not stepping up and handling his responsibilities.

For daring to touch her in the first place.

That wayward thought sneaks out, catching me off guard.

I shake my head to rid myself of it. What she’s done—and with whom—is none of my business. I’m not a defender of women. I’m not a protector. I feel nothing. Sympathy is a concept that flew the coop for me years ago—and it’s going to stay gone.

Bottom line, whatever annoyingly raw instincts this woman rouses in me don’t matter.

She’s going to refuse my offer.

So be it.

I’ve gone years without being touched and I’m more than content to carry on alone forever. Alone is the smartest place to be. Although…I won’t deny my cock wants very badly for her to say yes. That she’ll move in and warm my bed. The long-neglected shaft is weighing down the crotch of my briefs, distended and swollen at the sight of her full mouth. The youthful glow of her skin. What I can see of it, anyway. Most of it is hidden by the fucking coat.

She’s going to say no. Obviously.

If she wanted to make an income on her back, she could have already accomplished that in town. She’s young and attractive. Gorgeous, really, I realize with a stuttered breath when the moon emerges from behind a cloud. And she’s been crying.

I staunchly ignore the tug in my chest.

No. Don’t take back the crude offer.

Let her refuse and leave with the child. I can go back to reading my book and drinking my whiskey. I don’t want her to step over this threshold. The last several times I allowed someone to bridge that gap, I was sorely disappointed in the outcome. She’d be a disappointment, too.

So why am I holding my breath to hear her decision?

And why is there something oddly…familiar about her?

Have I come across her picture in the newspaper for some reason?

“If I…sleep with you, you’ll feed him? There’s a room here to call his own?” She chews on her lip, trading a glance between me and the child, pulling that coat ever tighter. Probably scandalized by the proposition. She probably swore off sex after the first time. I’m sure whatever rich idiot got her pregnant didn’t bother to satisfy her in the process.

I would.

A bead of sweat travels down my spine.

“That’s correct,” I say, positive she’s never going to agree.

Not this girl who refuses to show a hint of skin.

Not this girl who can barely make eye contact with me without blushing.

Maybe she wouldn’t even accept satisfaction. Maybe she’d be stiff as a board beneath me in bed, counting the minutes until it ends, refusing to succumb to the needs of the flesh.